The Simp’s Lament

In a world where homicidal maniacs live and thrive,
their
voices
grotesque,
offensive,
their tapestries hung
with reckless abandon;
in this world there exists a realm
beyond the ordinary,
a world where football
is no longer just a game,
but a dance of shadows and light.
A universe within,
defying the cannibalistic nature of time,
throwing glitchy shadows…
reality flickering at the edges.

Why all this bullshit?
This truthless parade.
a rampant vine,
entwining truth,
needing no nurture.

I admit it.
No bullshit. I am a simp.
No, not a simpleton.
A simp… nobody ever read to you like I did.

Zoomers in the house?
You know what I’m saying.

My parents,
life’s sculptors,
unwitting architects of flaws,
you inadvertently designed
the very foundations of my being.
Self-made,
self broken.
Lesson learned.

Living in a world craving sharp edges,
a dull knife yields no favors,
so I pack my suitcase
full of razor blades
and sling them at
those who need pruning.

A demon,
trapped in glass,
lurks in the corners,
a metaphor for the stories we tell,
a narrative about narratives,
a mirror reflecting its own image.

Life unfolds in a spectrum of horror.
At dawn, a curse is spoken,
an imprecation impregnating the quantum universe.
Amidst this, the strains of a wedding song echoes.
“Sit,” they said…
an invitation,
or perhaps a farewell
to a love never truly held
in a world where every story,
every voice,
matters in this
grand tapestry of existence.